


Whiskey and Spearmint

by Jd_lyn



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: I only know short chapters with out of character writing im sorry, John Marston Is Blind In His Left Eye You Can't Change My Mind, John rides a motorcycle and her name is Jones, M/M, Modern day AU but still set in a time thats past, but i have a playlist with songs abt unhealthy relationships that i played while working on this, im not sure where im going with this, so chances are its not going to be a happily ever after morston fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 10:26:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18333983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jd_lyn/pseuds/Jd_lyn
Summary: John Marston; local biker, functioning alcoholic, professional bar fight starter.





	1. 1.1

**Author's Note:**

> As stated in the tags, I'm not sure where this will end up, but so far it's three different fic ideas thrown into one, with characters so out of character that John Marston from the game can't even see John Marston in this fic with binoculars.  
> Also, please be nice to me, I'm very small and this is my first rdr fic.

Jones sat in the parking spot right where he left her, the bike leaning on the kickstand. His lighter felt hot and heavy in his hand, shifting from his palm to between his fingers, flicking it on. The cigarette was smothered out on the concrete for a few minutes now, but not yet forgotten by John's fluttering fingers. His mind was clearing up, nearly numb and empty by now, but he wasn't ready to face the brick wall of reality that comes after that stage; the little green lighter was shoved back in his pocket, and in a few little-too-heavy strides, the door was shoved open and he was back inside the run down bar. 

"How many times you gotta be told?" Joseph Perez, Joe for short, slid another glass down to John's seat at the bar. 

"Don't have to go outside, I know. Just how I was raised is all." John grabbed the glass. Cuba Libre, the first pull told him; that or that it's all he ever drinks. 

"Don't give me that, kid, you's hardly raised at all." Joe's eyes locked on a group near the pool table, low hanging lights hardly any help to revealing the identity of the newcomers in town. "You seen them around before?"

John shot a look over his shoulder, slamming back the rest of the drink. "Nope, can't say I have. Do you want me to?" The ice chased itself around the bottom of the glass.

"Naw, no, none of that. I just got those chairs fixed from last time you got friendly with someone." John didn't say anything back, he just kept a steady flow of drinks, and a less than discreet eye on the group. They weren't doing anything wrong, quite the opposite actually. Paying for drinks as they were taken to the table - rather than wracking up a tab, discussion among themselves no louder than the other contenders. John, however, was apparently on the prowl for a fight. 

Joe saw it, caught the glint in his eye as he was about to slide another glass. He held it in his hand, watching as John's grasp slid out - it would have been too slow to catch the cup, had Joe pushed it down a little too hard, or at all even. 

"You're cut off." The glass slid the opposite way, instead, down a few bar stools. Joe turned back to John. "And you so much as look at them boys again, I'm not serving you tomorrow, neither." 

"I got booze at home," he stood up, and turned towards the men, eyeing up the tallest one. He wasn't any more than five paces from the bar when another gaze burned into the side of his head. The boots on his feet suddenly felt ten times heavier; he was the one staring others down, John was always the one to pick a fight, he paused and leaned against an empty chair when he met the source of the burning. Dark blond hair framed the tanned skin nicely, eyes flickering up and down John's frame a few times before returning to his eyes. In his drunken state of mind, he wasn't sure if he actually saw the smirk that quickly danced from one corner of the mans lips to the other before rushing from his face again. John was frozen in some sort of trance as the blond finished his drink and stood up, pushing the chair in with such delicacy one would think it was made of twigs and craft glue. The two men held eye contact again for a brief second - or maybe a minute, John wasn't sure time existed any more - and just like that the man was walking away. 

John watched him go, eyes scanning his back, saddened for moment before realizing that the man was heading to the bathrooms, rather than the door. His hands shook at his sides, weighting the worst possible outcome of following the man. It could be a trap, John could follow him and the other could be waiting to beat him - a low move, but John was already on the prowl for a fight. It could be possible the man really just needed to pee, and would be thrown off and get the wrong idea from John marching in behind him. No matter what, John could deal with the outcome when it happened. The newcomers near the pool table now forgotten, John started off on his new mission. 

He took in a breath before opening the door, his chest burning when he was instantly greeted with those same, bright and burning eyes. The man was facing the door, leaning back against the sink, his thumb holding his bottom lip between his teeth, arms crossing his large torso. John stepped to the side, letting the door swing shut beside him.

"I'm not usually this easy." He crossed his arms too, not sure what else to do with them in that moment. 

"That's what they all say." The voice alone that danced out of the others lips made John want to drop to his knees and see what other noises he could drag out into the heavy air of the bathroom. Dusty brown boots seemed to echo loudly off the tile as he took a few strides, now standing in front of John. Whiskey and spearmint fanned across his face and he wondered for a moment when the man started chewing gum, because nobody just smelled like _that_.

"Maybe you just bring out the worst in people." John's own voice came out in an embarrassingly soft whisper. A hand raised up, delicately tracing along the scars down John's cheek, and it burned, so harsh and bright that suddenly he wanted nothing more than to turn and run and never step foot in the bar again. His arms, still crossed in front of him, squeezed at his ribs so hard he thought surely the bones would snap and pop out of place. 

The hand came back, laying flat across the scars, thumb sitting dangerously close to his good eye. The mans other hand found a place on his bicep, a smirk playing at his lips when he felt how tense John was. "I'm not scaring you now, am I, sweetheart?" 

John hated it, he hated how he wanted to say yes, that he was actually scared - scared that the man in front of him could read him like an open book, that he knew about the scars and held answers to all his problems. Scared that the burning in his face would never go away and his tough guy facade wasn't working. He knew it was stupid, and he was simply over thinking, because this man standing in front of him just wanted a quick lay and was trying to get John riled up. Before he could try to stumble over some response, soft lips were pressing against his, and the hand moved from his arm down to his hip, holding him in place like he knew John wanted to turn and leave. John kissed back, uncrossing his arms when he was suddenly shoved into the wall, pinned between the white painted bricks and the mans chest. His whole body burned and ached like a flare gun went off when the blond shoved his leg between John's thighs and licked into his mouth. The spearmint taste over ruled the whiskey, and the cigarette and Rum & Coke concoction of John's own mouth, and he wondered briefly how big the others ego has to be to chew a piece of gum after hardly making eye contact. 

Hesitantly, John wrapped his arms around the blonds neck, pulling away to catch his breath, only for lips to attack his throat - now stretched out and bared to the empty room. John couldn't help but let out a moan at that, his senses feeling slightly overwhelmed. 

As quickly as it seemed to start, it stopped. The man pulled away and let out a laugh that was more breath than noise, his lips wet and his eyes hazy, and then he was gone. If it wasn't for the light ache in the side of his neck, and the pounding in his ears, John would have thought the whole scenario was nothing more than a drunken day dream. The more he thought about it, the more he realized, it could have been. Maybe he was really bleeding out in the alley behind the bar, and the man was never even there drinking whiskey in the first place. If it wasn't for his teeth working over a piece of spearmint gum, he would have sat against the wall wondering what actually happened until Joe came in to throw him out at closing time.


	2. 1.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He scrubbed his hands a little too long and hard, as if John was a feral dog he should have left to rot, instead of picking apart for the bones and fur.

John was pissed. Riding home, head buzzing and fingers cold from the crisp night air, he was trying to pin point the moment he messed up. What turned the other man off? John wasn't even the one initiating anything - everything was on the blond! Maybe he just realized he was making a mistake before it was even in full swing, stopping what ever was going to happen so he wouldn't have anything to regret. 

The more he thought about it, the more he wished he just ignored the gaze of the other and started the fight he wanted - the one he could control. He never should have trailed the other into the bathroom, never gasped and moaned and fed into it so much. He should have spit the gum out at the mans feet and been the one to wisp away into the night. 

Instead, he smiled like a love struck high school kid, smacking and cracking the spearmint gum as he leaned against the cool brick wall. His mood dampened quickly when the mystery man wasn't found anywhere in the bar; Joe hadn't even noticed him leaving. The gum popped one last time against John's teeth before he spit it out in a fit of almost childish rage - as if the man was watching from the other side of the street. Like seeing John spit it into the bushes would be like a dagger to the chest.

His face burned - from shame or the biting wind, he wasn't sure.

The next week dragged; each night at the bar seeming bland and boring, each conversation a broken record. John found himself looking over at the empty table in the corner, again and again, hoping that one time the man would just be there, that smirk bolting across his face before falling away like it was never there.

Joe caught on, not bothering to bring it up. If John wanted to talk about it, he would. 

And then, as different as day and night, a week later, John found the blue eyes, as if they were watching the door, waiting for him. Suddenly he wasn't pissed any more, there was no more blaming himself or wanting to know what changed. Half of him wanted not to perch up at the bar, rather go sit in front of the man and ask his name, his job, the season he liked most, if he liked the way John's leather jacket would sometimes make his shoulders seem a little bit broader than they actually were. 

Instead, he did just the opposite. He played hard to get, or maybe he was just being dumb. Joe called out to him, or maybe it was to someone else - he wasn't paying attention. Some fucker was in his spot. It was so stupid to get worked up over something so little, especially when there was at least 6 other open spots. But there was at least 6 other spots and this guy felt like he could just take John's stool. 

A little voice in the back of his head reminded him not to do anything stupid, as pretty boy was watching from across the room. The billowing voice of rage quickly drowned it out, though. 

"You wanna move, buddy?"

"No." The man didn't look over his shoulder, didn't seem to move at all, almost like he knew John was talking to him. Joe said something again, but John still wasn't paying attention.

"That's my spot." His blood was like fire flowing through his veins, and maybe since he didn't have the energy to start a fight before, that explained why in this moment it was like finally giving in after a day or two without a smoke. The life pumping back through him like the junkie getting a fix.

"Well," the man spun around, looking like the big reveal of a villain in a superhero movie, "I don't see your name on it. Then again maybe your momma spells stupid different from mine." 

John didn't even register exactly what was said, he just swung. Maybe he aimed just right, or maybe the thief didn't see it coming, but his hand was clasping his jaw as he stumbled out of the chair, trying to catch his balance. Once again, John found himself in over his head. He started a fight he knew he wouldn't be able to finish over something he knew didn't actually matter. At some point, he knew he gave up, but a voice sweet like honey with a facade of the roughness of a mountain side cut through the air, and then everything was quiet, or maybe John stopped listening. 

John was grounded, and the spinning in his head slowed when hands gripped at his shoulders, pulling him up from the pitiful slump he was on the floor. 

Water was running, and the smell of whiskey and blood was overwhelming, and the rough paper towels that Joe insisted on sticking with wiped at his face. What ever post-beating, self-pitying high he was on, John snapped out of, and those blue eyes were locked with his, sharp and deep, and daunting, like devil's water. Daring to give a reason, an excuse really, just to see how fast it could be shot down.

John didn't take the bait. He kept his mouth closed, lazily shifting his gaze around the room, to anything other than the man he still knew nothing about.

"Are you always an idiot? Or just when I'm around?" The man kept his hand at John's jaw, holding his head still to look him in the eyes.

"Don't flatter yourself." John scoffed, looking at the door from the corner of his eye, wishing the man would just leave him to nurse his own wounds and ride home in shame.

The other looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn't and for that, John was grateful. He stood from where he was crouching, and went to the sinks. John watched him, a pain in his chest at the thought of the stranger _actually_ leaving him alone in the bathroom - once again. 

"I never did catch your name." More of a statement than a prompt, like the man could care less if John actually said anything in response. And John thought for a moment, if he introduced himself, maybe the other man would too, and John could finally learn more about him. Or maybe nothing would happen, maybe the other man simply thought that John was a dumb ass and wanted to address him by his name before he left town, never to return out of fear of feeling obligated to act like he knows John. 

"John." He finally replied, watching the man scrub a little too long at his hands. Scrubbing a little too hard, as if John was a feral dog he should have left to rot rather than be picked apart for the bones and fur. 

"What, did your parents stop at John?"

"Marston."

"Well, John Marston," he finally turned off the water, reaching for the paper towels again. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to start a fight you can't finish?" 

John's face burned red, his stomach feeling hollow at the lack of the warm grasp of alcohol, his fingers cold and numb. "I know what I'm doing." It came out with the whine of a sigh, lacking the bite and backbone of a growl. His eye felt like it would pop at any second, and his lip stung where it started to bleed again. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was ruining your master plan." John followed the others boots, from the sink, to the trash, back to the sink, where he turned to lean against the counter top. A huff, or maybe a brief laugh, "You look like shit, so tell me. Do you really?"

No. He didn't, well, he did. He knew he always started fights he couldn't win, like he needed to be put back in his place. He told himself he deserved to be bleeding and bruised, as he would drag himself to the bathroom, a trail of shame and embarrassment always rolling off him in waves, even though he deserved that, too. It was the _why_ that he hasn't figured out yet. And of course, the why is what the other man wanted, his gaze burning like he was disappointed, as if he actually knew John and cared enough to want an explanation. "Aren't you going to introduce yourself?" John tried to change the subject, not so smoothly either; the silence still hanging thick and heavy in the air. 

"Thought about it."

"Huh." John considered standing and leaving, clearly this wasn't going to go anywhere.

The man shifted, uncrossing his arms, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a pack of gum, making quick work of the wrapper and tossing a piece at John. The silver wrapping in his lap held his attention, and he wondered if it landed on the floor, would he have the heart to throw it away? Or would he have kept it in his pocket and let his heart run wild with conspiracies of what the gesture _could_ have meant?

"Arthur Morgan." He stood in front of John now, a hand stretched down in front of him. "Let's get you out of here and get some ice on that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hitting two pans together over my head* i dont like this and i dont know what im doing but id like some validation over it, thank you

**Author's Note:**

> If you want, I'm over on the tumblr dot com @ jd-lyn.


End file.
